Landslide
by Panoptikon
Summary: The resource-rich Walara system is vital to the Imperial war effort, and to the forces seeking to penetrate the embattled Vermillion Sector. The reclamation of Walara VII falls to the hive world scum of Pevasos, a motley crew of gangers, underhive scum, and even some law-abiding citizens. Rallying together as a single unit is their only chance at acheiving victory over a vile Foe.
1. Prologue

Rays of early morning light spilled over the peaks of a nameless mountain range, visiting their wrath upon a sun-bleached landscape. Down below, parched badlands stretched away to the south, the rolling hills devoid of all but the hardiest of vegetation. In the flatlands beneath the mountains, a sprawling metropolis sprouted from the pale beige soil, stretching outward in a stippled crescent into the hilly expanse. Many of the buildings were a squat and ramshackle affair, all prefab arrangements augmented with battered industrial surplus. The innermost civic and economic center sported dark, sleek skyscrapers cast in a classic imperial gothic design, going to impressive lengths to display the superiority of their inhabitants. There was order here, a pleasing hierarchy of man-made peaks whose metallic trimmings gleamed in the breaking dawn. The outer districts, the majority of the city, plainly lacked the order of the center: streets ran in maddening configurations, looping back upon themselves or terminating abruptly in dilapidated hab blocks. As the city grew ever further past its center, the neighborhoods lost their claustrophobic air. At the outskirts, a citizen could breathe and take better stock of their surroundings.

Life had never been easy in the industrial metropolis and de facto capitol of Scillion's Reach. The bountiful ore and mineral deposits beneath the mountains drew industry and civilization to Walara VII, a resource-rich moon orbiting a turbulent gas giant of even greater value. Chief among the industrial sites were the towering, octagonal mass-conveyance tunnels that studded the rocky foothills. Tall enough to comfortably accommodate a scout Titan, they dominated the northern districts of Scillion's Reach, funneling the immense deposits of raw material bound for smelteries and manufactories within the city. The rewards had been endless for the brazen industry tycoons that first laid claims on these mountains and their subterranean wealth – all thanks to the explorators whose expeditions they had financially backed. The downtrodden millions that called Scillion's Reach home however, those who toiled away endlessly in the dark beneath the world's surface, saw little of the splendor aside from an increasingly aggressive expansion of industry.

Now, as with many dark corners of the Imperium, war had come to Walara VII. Rebellion, sedition, and horrific atrocities boiled up out of the ground itself, catching the nominal security forces utterly unprepared. The populace had gone from impoverished and reluctantly loyal citizens to slavering, murderous lunatics overnight, and their handiwork showed all across the moon's surface. The towering high-rises and skyscrapers of Scillion's Reach now belched black smoke from artillery bombardments and terroristic attacks, and the outermost districts had been pounded into rubble by brutal urban warfare. The Adeptus Arbites and industry-backed militias were overwhelmed by an enemy as nameless as the mountains that loomed over the city. The few survivors were driven out into the badlands, never to be seen or heard from again.

Once the local forces were routed, a line of demarcation was quickly erected at the edges of the city. In 50-meter intervals around the city limits, tall metal posts were hoisted into place, each bearing a cluster of loyalist corpses strung up by their feet and left to rot. The bodies were stripped bare, leaving the mutilated remains as food for carrion birds, which now swarmed at the corpse-posts and filled the air with incessant cawing. All around the war-torn city, the citizens raised the moldering banners of their dark masters: vile sigils that stung the eyes and turned the stomach, and carried the stench of rot and putrefaction on the breeze.

Even now, at this early hour, the sounds of pitched battle filled the streets, scattering the scavenging corvids in places as it grew too near for comfort. Bright flashes and deafening blasts reflected off the mountains, and gouts of dust and rubble that heaved themselves high into the air, the results of tightly coordinated artillery strikes. The crackle of small arms fire ripped through the rubble-heaped avenues and rail lines that laced the city, punctuated with the thumps of larger, armored combat. The taint of the Archenemy had infected Scillion's reach, and its faithful adherents turned their rapacious energies to exploiting the mineral riches below, after thoroughly butchering their competition. With the original masters of this world long-since gutted and picked clean by the carrion birds, the stout resistance that now gripped the city heralded a newcomer to this conflict:  
The forces of the Imperial Guard.


	2. Chapter 1

The guardsman's knees buckled, the air driven from his lungs by a thunderous punch to his gut. He crumpled to the ground, his black leather boots and the red-hued flecktarn patterns of his uniform smeared in the dust of Walara VII's barren soil. Trooper Markus Gudelis sucked in a ragged lungful of air before the follow-up dropkick lifted him bodily from the ground. He let out a yelp that echoed off the white stucco walls that hemmed in the abandoned yard, before collapsing into the fetal position, hands feebly shielding his head from further assault. Stars exploded across his vision, and with a lurch he vomited his meager breakfast across the sun baked earth.

A shadow fell across the guardsman's face, which was already flushed red from the exertions of dry heaving. A towering figure, one of those bastard high-spire butchers drafted from the planetary elite at their regiment's founding, dipped into a low squat beside him. The powerfully built silhouette of Sgt. Atur Goss loomed over the insubordinate guardsman, addressing him in a menacing baritone:

"Getting tired of hearing your name, Gudelis. I'm starting to think you don't respect my methods." He smiled, equal parts keen observation and bloodthirsty invitation. "One of these days I won't have any choice but to turn you in. And these are lean times – I hear they're saving the bolter rounds and letting those big Munitorum 'abbies pull troublemakers apart. Isn't that right?" He looked up to the squad leader responsible for the man now squirming in the dirt.

Trooper Vika Skomantas, a small and lean-built woman of out-hab stock, fought back a grimace as she conjured the image. The sergeant was correct: their commissariat attaché had taken to using monstrously oversized Ogryn work gangs, abhuman laborers colloquially known by the Pevasos troops as "abbies", to tear the guilty limb from limb. The Commissar responsible had no doubt received a commendation for the thrifty, ammo saving solution. Thankfully, she'd never witnessed the informal summary execution being carried out – but by now everyone had heard the screams. She fidgeted with her cloth cap, clasped tightly in one hand and nodded, only daring to meet Goss's eyes for a moment.

"That's the word 'round the barrack-halls, Sergeant." She said quickly, squaring her shoulders as Gudelis met her gaze with a plaintive look. The fires of his belligerence, the very behavior that had him brought before Goss for in-house discipline, was utterly extinguished now. She relished the mouthy little slag-bin's comeuppance, but still felt a pang of pity as he was pummeled into the earth by their frightening platoon sergeant. Goss nodded appreciatively, patting the prone guardsman on the cheek.

"Something to think about, next time you feel like challenging your squad leaders. Or dragging your feet during morning calisthenics. _Or_ thinking you're clever enough to nip off with extra rations. The list just keeps growing, doesn't it?" He rose, dusting off his hands. Gudelis simply tucked his head, still struggling to regulate his breathing.

Sgt. Goss stood a full head and shoulders over most of the other Pevasos natives, his pale complexion marking him as the son of off-world migrants. The muscles of his arms, hard as Astartes battle plate, taught like bridge cabling, and sheathed in faith tats and old unit insignias, bulged from tightly rolled sleeves at mid-bicep. His uniform looked tailor-made with him in mind – a far cry from the often-ill-fitting garments foisted upon the regiment by way of mass inventory liquidation on their home world. He pulled his cap from a cargo pocket on his trousers, shaking it out before placing it back over his neatly cropped head of raven hair. He turned to address Vika, with the calm tone of a man that hadn't just beaten one of his subordinates until they vomited.

"Not a word to the Hats. If they come sniffing around with an itchy bolter finger, tell them…" He cast his gaze about, shrugging. "Tell them I'm holding remedial combative drills for our out-of-standards troops. They can verify it with me. By the Throne, they can verify it just by looking at him." He glanced at her slim waist, where her standard issue gloves were tucked snugly under her utility belt. It was one of countless sentimental rituals and subtle tells that the Pevasos guardsmen clung to, so recently whisked from their home by Imperial decree.

"Smelter crew?" He gestured to her gloves, held fast by a wide, thick web belt rather than the leather utility harness of her past profession. Smeltery workers in Pevasos's outer-hive industrial blocks tucked their gloves in a similar fashion at the end of their shifts, signifying a day's work done before returning to their dormitory halls.  
Vika nodded.

"Well, I'd wager you're built of stronger stuff than half the lads in the platoon. Next offence, you go ahead and haze the life out of him."

"Aye, sergeant."

"The Hats have eyes and ears everywhere," Goss turned to regard Gudelis, who still moaned softly while fighting back tears of agony. "And he's the type to spotlight us in a hurry."

"I understand." She said. She glanced over his shoulder and froze. Another figure appeared through a side door, stepping into the dusty lot and calling out to them.

"Sgt. Goss, a word?" came the voice of their company's commander, a former floor boss from one of the hive-side industrial blocks. Captain Domante stood in a small doorway flanked by empty planters, a bound stack of documents tucked under one arm. Goss turned 'round.

"As many words as you'd like, sir."

"Good. Not sure if I was interrupting something _important_ …" The short, stocky captain began.

"Remedial combative drills. Sir." Vika interrupted, drawing a look from him and Goss. She winced, cursing herself a fool for her lackluster skills at subterfuge. Domante looked to the sergeant, then to the man struggling to his feet, then back to the sergeant.

"Trooper Gudelis, Trooper Skomantas, you are dismissed." Goss said over his shoulder. Vika and her battered guardsman nodded their assent and quickly took their leave. He watched as they disappeared through an arched entrance leading to the refectory-turned-barrack hall. He turned back to Captain Domante, to find him staring dubiously.

"Need I ask, sergeant?" Domante raised an eyebrow. He kept a professional air, but he'd be lying if he didn't still harbor a great deal of fear for this bloody-handed killer assigned to his assault company. Drafting in operatives of the Ebon Lotus kill squads, notoriously brutal shock troops answering only to Pevasos's planetary governor, was a surprising move by the quill-pushers of the Administratum. No doubt an attempt at sprinkling a bit of real experience and discipline among the largely conscripted force. A shrewd decision, and one easy to implement when safely removed from the reality of it all.

"Wouldn't be right of me to presume an officer's needs, sir." Goss said glibly. Domante sighed, knitting his brow. Goss's platoon had remarkably low numbers of disciplinary infractions on record since he was placed in charge, far and away less than the other sergeants. He was a cold, brutal bastard with a tremendous capacity for violence, but he kept his men in line, and that in itself was a small victory.

"No matter. At any rate, we've got new orders. Whole brigade is moving on the northern districts, straight up the mountainside." He passed a selection of flimsy, wax-stamped parchments.

"From what I understand sir, the Foe is actually _beneath_ the mountains." Goss said with mock naivete, leafing through the stack of loadout standards, platoon dispersal strictures, and other mission essential data.

"And when we're done, that's where they'll be staying. We're rolling straight through the Dead Line, up onto the slopes of those mountains, full-bore. The assault companies are tapped for a large-scale demo op, right up in their higher bastions."

"This came down fast." He flipped through a few more pages, stopping at a page stamped on its corner with the Icon Mechanicus, coupled with the crenelated tower emblem of the Ordo Reductor. "What's this? Gift parcel from the Priesthood?"

"That's why I stopped in – I need you and the other platoon leaders down at the armorers' lot in twenty. This is specialist work, and if we play this right, we'll be off this rock but quick."

"They've sold us that line a few times now, haven't they, sir?"

"Well, consider this claim gospel from the Trials of Sebastian Thor." Domante countered, a confident edge in his tone.

"I'll be there, sir."

"Good. Let's make ready quick; I think this will be kicking off sooner than they're letting on."

=][=

"And you're _sure_ this is going to work?" Colonel Pontius squinted into the flickering display module, eyes wandering over the miniature landscape that sprung up from the device. He glanced over to the figure on his right, the glow of incongruous optics emanating from under the electric blue robes matched the luminous quality of the display module.

"My dear Colonel, the Ordo Reductor only deals in absolutes. The efficacy of the seismic munitions on the local substrata far exceeds the minimum yield margins." Secutor-in-Chief Khan Sigma 36 ("Just Kahn, if you please." as it had introduced itself) cocked its head quizzically, its glowing optics winking off and on at random intervals as it considered the remark. The tones emanating from beneath its hood were rich in bass tones and spoken in a timbre more akin to a wizened schola professor, rather than the binaric shrieks of many lower servants of the Omnissiah.

As the commander of the 10th Pevasos Infantry regiment, Pontius was responsible for the conquest of Walara VII, a resource-rich moon orbiting an even more bountiful gas giant at the edges of the Vermillion Sector. It was a blighted sector known more commonly as the Vermillion Veil, wedged between the Tempestus and Obscurus segmentae and existing as a war-ravaged hinterland with its sovereignty eternally torn between the two. His bloated, remarkably overpopulated infantry brigades numbered in the thousands, and with only nominal mechanized support elements from the nearby worlds of Jessenios and Reyado, they were considered by Segmentum Command to be sufficient to pacify the minimally occupied moon.  
Regrettably true to form, estimates of enemy resistance at the world's capitol were woefully misinformed. Pontius mulled over the tech priest's words, brow knitting is he stared back into the display.

"Even still, I'm sure you've heard the old maxim: No plan survives first contact with the enemy?" he mused, thumbing a rune on the module to raise the display, revealing the honeycombed tunnel network and stronghold of the Archenemy forces on Walara VII. The priest inclined its head momentarily.

"Indeed. The turn of phrase dates back to the mists of Ancient Terra, and is a cornerstone of any officer training corps. Though, it illustrates a rather more significant point." Khan slyly replied.

"What point is that?"

"There truly is no accounting for human nature." If there was anything human left of that walking cogitator's face, Pontius imagined it would be wearing a smug grin.

The display module hummed as its processor struggled to quickly render the dizzying lattice of subterranean fortifications. He gave the desk-sized device a gentle kick to set it right, ignoring the mollified gasps of the Mechanicus serfs milling about dim confines of the command bunker. The established tunnels, drilled long ago by the world's initial settlers, followed more regimented paths. More erratic, interconnected branches were revealed after the initial orbital scans by the supporting elements of Battlegroup Lambda, reaching high into the unnamed mountain range and hollowing out a significant portion of their mass.  
The tech-priest stepped up to the display, its witty chastising tone replaced by one more reassuring. The undoubtedly artificial humanity gave Pontius chills.

"Recall our briefing earlier this cycle. The mineral deposits that comprise these mountains rely on dense compaction to maintain their present state. Aggressive exploitation of these resources by the enemy has weakened their integrity significantly." It gestured to the erratic tunnel striations with a gleaming, ruby bionic arm. "Their lack of restraint and lust for mineral wealth will be their unmaking."

"I remember the brief, Khan. Reliable gear aside, this push is going to cost us." He chewed at his lip, the concern for his men intertwined with the pressure placed upon him for a swift resolution to this conflict. The allotted timetable was only weeks away from expiring, and as his first major action as commanding officer, this was his chance to prove himself a competent leader of men.

"Is sacrifice not the very foundation of His great and uncountable armies? Of the very Imperium?" Khan asked, as though any other assumption was utterly inconceivable. Pontius merely grunted in response, eyes fixed to the glowing display.

=][=

"Bastard. I'll fragging gut 'im, swear on the _Throne_ I will," Gudelis sat on his bunk, still gingerly massaging his belly and muttering loud enough for those around him to hear. Ula Glazas, a wiry and hawkish underhive scavenger on Goss's command squad, scoffed from several bunks away.

"Sure, you will. Right after I'm anointed sector governess. Fraggin' useless PDF, can you believe this sump rat ever wore a uniform before this?" she looked down the aisle to another member of the command squad.

"Waste of flesh." Trooper Pligge, a musclebound, scar-coated hive ganger said amid his pushups on the dusty floor. Ula laughed cruelly at Gudelis, still dusty in places from his beating out in the yard. Gudelis glared at the two fearsome antagonists, wisely keeping his thoughts to himself.

Captain Domante's assault company was barracked in the refectory hall of an abandoned Ministorum monastery, down the other side of the ridge that overlooked the planetary capitol of Scillion's Reach. The shadowy hall buzzed with lively conversation and activity. To the left, rows of cots were piled high with personal gear or occupied by loudly snoring guardsmen making the most of their down time. At the center, on tables of plyboard stacked atop empty ammo crates, small groups of men and women shuffled cards, gambling with their personal affects or small stacks of Naval scrip. At one table, a gaggle of former hive gangers shouted over a particularly heated arm-wrestling match. Others sat at their cots and scribbled out letters to family on Pevasos, making the most of the established supply lines while they lasted. The many illiterate citizens press-ganged into service from the underhives and outer hab sprawls dictated letters to those capable of reading and writing.

Presently, a mass of shadows appeared through the arched entranceway of the refectory. The company command section stepped over the threshold, flanked by the platoon sergeants who now threaded back through the ranks. Chatter diminished at the front of the space, and after angry shouts from the sergeants, silence settled in and the guardsmen all rose to their feet. Captain Domante stepped ahead of his command group, tucking his cap under his arm and addressing the troops.

"Morning, Company 3. We have new orders, 'come down from the top. The Foe is escalating their movements into the central districts, and we are tasked with immediate deployment for demolition, with standard sweep-and-cleanse en route." He took a breath to continue, but was stopped as one of the men blurted out:

"This mean our recoup is cancelled, sir?" a furtive, leathery sprawl dweller asked. The words had scarcely left his lips when Trooper Pligge knocked him forward with a heavy smack to the back of his head.

"Captain's talking, slag-stain." He hissed, grasping the man by the back of his collar and holding him fast.

"Recoup _is_ hereby cancelled, and will resume at a later date to be decided." Domante answered. The groans and caterwauling lasted only a moment, before the sergeants shouted down the offenders and threatened those within striking distance. "We leave at 9th Bell, local time. Troopers, look to your sergeants for further guidance. The Emperor protects." Domante finished. He turned with his command group in tow, and left the company in silence.

A subdued murmur filled the refectory, coupled with the scraping of chairs on tile and jangling of issued gear. The six platoons of Domante's assault company set about their ready-making with begrudging obedience, lamenting the premature end of their rest period. Their time back from the front lines had been brief, and the horrors of the Foe's methods of war fighting was still fresh and raw in their minds.

"Dry those tears now, this place is a fragging slag-heap, anyway. Everyone at Muster Lot Alpha, inspection-ready. Pack for a two-day assault: full kit and ammo dispersion for everyone. Breaching teams: today's demo-calc is tier D – for Double." He said with a smirk, before searching through his platoon: "Ostap, Skomantas, get me two men each for mission-gear detail, and pick another two pairs for standby." He paused, watching his men as their mood shifted from outrage, to fear, to weary resignation over the span of several moments.

"Squad leaders, light a flamer under your men double-quick, we're on schedule to be slinging las by lunch-bell." Goss looked to his subordinates, before turning and heading back up the stairs.


End file.
